You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. It was never intended that I should marry Monsieur Valade, but after the tragedy—’ her eyes darkening in genuine distress ‘—and that he was the only survivor, he came to me in the convent and married me, and brought me to England. No doubt there’s some little mistake. It’s artificially chance. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith.
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